


Correct Behavior

by Skalidra



Series: Marco Polo - A/B/O [2]
Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blackmail, Extremely Dubious Consent, Intersex, Knotting, Language Kink, M/M, Omega Marco, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8725141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: The Khan's new pet, Marco Polo, is a fascinating creature. Clever, shy, and so very different than the other omegas of the court, in more ways than just his looks. Ahmad, as he always does, watches and waits for the perfect opportunity to take advantage of.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is part two of the Marco Polo thing I wrote. I swear, I didn't actually write this at the same time as the Legends of Tomorrow thing I just posted. That's just... I dunno, I swear A/B/O isn't usually my thing but well, here we are. Anyway, this continues the adventure of, 'Marco has sex with just about everyone except the people who would be really good for him', with Ahmad. So, you know, don't expect this to be even remotely healthy cause it's not. Enjoy!
> 
> (On Monday we'll get back to your regularly scheduled DC stories; promise.)
> 
> EDIT: The tags have been changed to 'Choose Not to use Archive Warnings'. (I thought the content was made clear by the combination of 'Extremely Dubious Consent', 'Blackmail', and 'this isn't remotely healthy so don't expect it to be'. Apparently it wasn't.)

He watches the Khan’s new pet from afar, for a time. First, to take his measure. New pets come to the court often enough, but few catch the Khan’s interest for more than their single night of service, and fewer still have the nerve to defend themselves when they should.

The first hint that this one will be different — beyond his uniquely foreign features, and the cleverness he shows speaking before the Khan — is that the Empress takes him under her wing for a brief time. The court keeps their distance, and the Latin is not allowed to leave the protection of the walls, so no others have a chance. Then the boy is set ‘free,’ to leave the cell that has served as both his cage and shield, and work beneath one of the tax collectors. One of _his_ tax collectors.

From the reports of that collector, he learns that the boy has a gift for language, for matters of numbers and words, and for getting into trouble. After the boy is released, and when he is not surrounded by the protective presence of Sanga’s gaggle of orphans, the boy is beset by those who would taste what their Khan (and Empress) have.

Many retreat with clawed faces and bitten hands, but no one succeeds in taking the pet. Considering how the boy shook when given to the Khan by his father, he assumes the Empress must have encouraged him to be feral, to dissuade those who would wish to have him. Few are willing to risk such vicious injuries, even if the reward for perseverance is the pleasure to be found in the warmth between those pale thighs.

Most would rather make their interest known, and then leave any change of mind to the boy. It is safer.

He waits, and he watches from afar. It is not difficult to keep tabs on the boy; he is not nearly so subtle as he believes himself to be, and he is an easy figure to spot amongst others, so many take note of his passing. The would-be conquerors are easy to spot as well; rarely have so many men had such clear scratches across their faces from the same person.

He admits to being curious, but given how violently all of those who test the boy are denied, it becomes clear that this one will need a different sort of touch if he is to be truly conquered. To take is simple enough; to _own_ is another task altogether, and he has never done things by halves.

The pet is favored, and — it becomes clear — attempting to rise to power within the court, however accidentally. Pets like that must be tamed, before they grow too wild to accept a touch from anyone but their owners. The Latin, _Marco_ , is one such pet. Force will not tame such a creature, and he cannot hold to the level of kindness it would take to coax him either. So he must not be allowed the chance to fight, or the chance to refuse.

The chance comes as he works through the latest reports from Sanga. Usually he dismisses the minor errors and gaps in them, as long as they are not so blatant as to be seen by just anyone, but this provides a… unique opportunity.

He summons the boy to him, and watches the smile fall from his face as he demands an answer about Sanga’s missing profits. It is satisfying, but he keeps that hidden. Until his answer is received, and he sits back in his chair, looking down at Marco. The pet isn’t quite looking him in the eye; he’s off guard, nervous.

Good.

“Clear the room,” he commands. The pet startles as his attendants rise, hesitates, and then shifts back to go with them. “No. Not you.”

The door closes behind the last of his subordinates. He watches the boy for another few moments, then rises from his seat, carefully closing his books and pushing his ink aside. The pet stays still, silent for once. It’s a good look on him.

“Come here.” A pause, but he is obeyed. The pet circles around to his side, standing beside him, behind his desk. He turns to look at the boy, to study his naturally wide eyes, to let his gaze linger on the unmarked, unclaimed throat on display there. “You are gaining quite a reputation,” he offers, and then lets his mouth curl into a small smirk. “I do not think the men of the court have bled so much in a long time.”

Marco looks startled, then glances away. To the door, then the ground beneath them. “I would hope that such a reputation would make them stop,” is admitted.

“And pass up such a challenge? Doubtful.”

He passes close to the pet as he slips out from between the desk and his chair, coming uncomfortably close and carefully angling it so that he ends up past Marco, trapping him — accidentally, of course — back against the desk. The boy does seem to notice, if the backwards glance is any indication, but apart from the slight furrowing of his brow no attention is brought to it. A mistake, but the little pet is too naïve to know such a thing. He has not yet learned that not all attacks are as straightforward as the attempts made on him thus far.

He lifts a hand, curling it against Marco’s jaw, knuckles brushing the relatively fragile skin there. The boy shifts back, takes a step that knocks him into the edge of the desk, and not far enough from him to even be out of range to touch.

“Sir,” Marco starts, voice low and defensive now. “What is it you are doing?”

“Is it not clear?” He takes Marco’s jaw in his whole hand this time, stepping in to crowd the pet. “I am taking what I desire; it happens to be you.”

The boy is fast. He telegraphs, but from such close proximity his speed would cost most at least one set of scratches; no wonder so many bear his marks. He is not one of the many however. The boy is not the only one to have trained with Sifu, and he bends back from the nails aimed at his face, just enough to let them slice past. It is simple enough to land a hard strike to his ribs, and then grab his wrist in the moment of breathless pain and twist it to force him to collapse to both knees.

“I am a _minister_ ,” he reminds the boy, keeping the grip on his jaw but hooking a thumb beneath his chin to force it up. “I am as a son to the Khan and the Empress. Do you know what I could do to you for attempting to harm me?”

A lie, but a calculated one. Neither Prince Jingim nor the bastard son Byamba bear the marks of Marco’s displeasure yet, so the boy has had no chance to prove what he is saying is false. After all, he has heard some murmurings about Western culture that tell him that this viciousness is not in the boy’s nature. He will not know that an omega’s right to defend themselves stretches across all ranks, though there are very few who would deny a Khan or Prince, and the attached opportunity to gain favor from them.

As expected, the boy hesitates. His other hand is curled to claws as well, awaiting the chance to strike, but when he narrows his eyes and pushes his thumb in a little harder, it ends. The boy swallows, gaze uncertain, nervous now.

“Apologies, Minister,” is what comes, “but I—”

“That’s alright,” he says, cutting off what was undoubtedly a denial of interest. “If you behave yourself, I could forget it ever happened. There won’t be a need to tell anyone else why you were being disciplined.”

The boy seems frozen more than obedient, but he is willing to risk the slight remaining chance that it will turn to violence. He lets go of Marco’s wrist so he can lift that hand to cup the other side of the pet’s face, letting his thumb brush the corner of that full mouth. The boy doesn’t bite, or snarl, which reinforces the chance that he has full control here. So he pulls upwards, guiding the boy to stand, those often-clawing hands clasping against the edge of his desk for support. Claiming the boy’s mouth is easy enough, though he is not quite so foolish as to invade it with a tongue, yet.

He shifts forward, bringing himself up against Marco and nudging one knee against the tight join of where his are pressed together. They don’t give, but he does not expect them to. He holds the pet in the kiss instead, lightly pressing his thumb in against his throat, a constant reminder and distraction both. His other hand he lets slide back, tangling in the curls of Marco’s hair and gripping tight.

When he allows the kiss to end, on his own time, he pulls at the boy’s hair. Not a tug, not a yank, just a slow, steady, irresistible pull, until Marco gives, and that throat bends into a small arch. The boy is breathing a bit harder, but not struggling. That’s a good start.

He lowers his other hand, releasing the grip on the pet’s jaw so that he can wrap those fingers — just as slow, just as steady — around the presentation of that throat. “Are you going to behave?” he asks. “Or shall I call a guard to escort you back to that cell, to await my discipline?”

He can feel the way the boy swallows, throat flexing against his grip. The shudder is expected, but no less enticing for all of its predictability. He pushes his knee a bit harder against those stubborn thighs, and can hear how Marco’s nails scratch against his desk. He does not allow his gaze to break away from Marco’s.

“I—” Those eyes lower, flickering away from his gaze. “Yes, Minister. I— I will behave.”

“Good.”

He squeezes the throat beneath his hand — lightly, with no intention to truly harm the boy — until those wide eyes close, mouth parting in a soft gasp. Only then does he let go, and trail the tips of his fingers down to the join of where his top comes together. His fingers rest neatly in the hollow of the boy’s throat, and soft inwards pressure makes him twitch back, though his hand’s presence in those curls of hair ceases any actual retreat.

It means removing his hand from that hollow, but there are better goals to be working towards than seeing how the boy reacts to the usual manipulations of instinct, so he allows his fingers to move lower. There is sharp tension as he drags his hand down the folds of Marco’s clothing, keeping him aware of where it is so as not to startle him too badly, as even a leashed dog may bite if overwhelmed. He does not need to look to undo the ties holding the boy’s pants tight, so he keeps his gaze on that foreign face instead, watching the flush come to his cheeks, and the downwards avoidance of his gaze.

He reaches in, circling the boy’s cock and thoroughly enjoying how he jerks and gasps. Not a whore’s pleasing, trained sounds, but honest. Innocent.

The boy is yet limp, but he has little interest in the length, and much more in the passage beneath it. He slides his hand lower, but the boy’s thighs are still pressed hard together, and resistance meets him when his fingers attempt to dip between them. He considers, for a moment, simply forcing his way in. He has the strength to get his hand between those thighs, to breach the boy regardless of his physical resistance. But that is… crass. Better to make the boy choose to take him, or perhaps to make him _beg_ for such an honor. After all, resistance does call for discipline, and he knows ways to make the Latin _ache_ to be filled.

“How did the Empress discipline you?” he asks, returning his hand to where it can curl around the soft length and stroke.

The boy’s gaze is marked with confusion, hands flexing against the desk. “I— I do not understand.”

“Discipline, Master Marco,” he repeats, with a smirk. “When you disappointed her, she did not simply let you go, did she? Our Empress is not that soft-hearted, and _you_ are not that talented.”

A darker flush; anger, certainly, but also shame. “That is not your business,” the boy says, voice hitching near the last syllables but steady enough to make him believe that it is meant. He can still work with that.

“Then I shall have to find my own ways.”

It takes a moment for the pet to comprehend his meaning. Then there is tension in his shoulders, and the denial of, “I have done nothing—”

Now he _does_ yank at the hair between his fingers, bowing the Latin’s head back in a sharp arch. It silences him well enough, and one wild hand grabs at his shoulder, fingers digging in against the cloth.

“Nothing?” he echoes, and pushes his hand back down to the clench of the boy’s thighs. “Do you think me enough of a fool to believe that this is how our Empress taught you to behave, boy?”

“N-No, Minister,” the boy stutters, throat working as he swallows, the hand jerking back off of his arm as if burnt.

“So you are not behaving as you should, and you know it. Therefore not only are you misbehaving, but you’ve lied to me about it as well. For all your cleverness, you aren’t really very smart, are you?” The boy jerks, makes a sound that’s clearly protesting. “I have seen the results of the Empress’ personal touch before,” he says, ignoring the sound. ”Do not think you can fool me. Behave, as you were _taught_.”

A harder shudder, but the boy’s thighs slowly part. They’re still tense, but no longer denying him access, which is at least a step in the right direction. He holds Marco in the arch as he pushes his hand down, the tip of a finger pressing at him, finding him somewhat damp to match how he’s semi-hard. Marco holds no desire for him, but the manipulation of instinctual reaction can turn even the most frigid of omegas to wetness. Some are vastly more challenging than others, and not worth the effort, but the boy isn’t frigid, simply defensive. He doesn’t have the experience to deny how his body reacts to being played.

“Better,” he allows, as he breaches the boy with a single finger. Slow, testing what it feels like. Only the Khan and the Empress have taken him before, and as far as he knows, neither has summoned him since the Empress allowed him somewhat free rein.

The boy is tight, virginally so, but no longer entirely dry. It will be slower work, but he’s had practice coaxing stubborn bodies to his will before, and Marco is still inexperienced. Vulnerable to the attentions of an alpha, when his only experience with one so far has been the Khan. Quite the first time, to be sure.

He leans forward, bringing his mouth to Marco’s throat, and all the sensitive skin that makes it up. All he has to do is breathe against the front of it — a slow breath, hot air rushing over his neck — and the pet shivers, swallowing. He allows his lips to curl into a faint smirk, pressing a carefully gentle kiss just beneath his chin as he removes his finger from within the boy and traces his fingers around the delicate folds instead. Teasing pressure, enough to please without — in the long run — satisfying.

He can hear the boy’s breath come a touch faster at his attention. His teeth graze across the pale throat bared to him, tempting with the potential of a bite though he has no intention of giving one. He’s not so foolish as to leave marks, no matter how much he may want to send the boy back to his quarters covered in the bruises of his conquering. If Marco does complain about this, he wants to be able to say that he was nothing but kind, and point to the lack of marks as proof. The single bruise to his side will blend in just fine with the rest of the marks Sifu’s training has left him with.

So he teases instead; grazes of teeth and the heat of his breath, with the occasional lingering kiss against any particularly sensitive spot betrayed to him by the boy’s twitches. By the time he lets his mouth rise to the boy’s ear, the passage beneath his fingers is significantly more damp. The boy is giving small, strangled sounds, no longer fighting the arch of his throat nor keeping his thighs tensed. When he allows his tongue to flicker out behind the curve of the boy’s ear, to one of the purest sources of that tantalizingly unique scent, the boy’s hips jerk hard against his hand, a sharp cry bursting from his throat.

He smiles. Marco’s desire is clear enough now that he feels it possible to loosen his grip in the curls of his hair, at least for a moment. He runs his fingers through that hair, stroking the boy’s scalp as he shifts the position of his hand to grip closer to the left side of his head. Slowly, he pulls until Marco’s head is turned away from him in the arch, baring the side of his throat and his ear for easier attention.

“I hear you have a gift and love for languages,” he says, keeping his voice low and calm to contrast with Marco’s fevered breath and heavy desire. “Why don’t you try this one, Latin?”

He leans a bit closer, lets his lips brush the shell of that ear. At the same time as he opens his mouth he breaches the boy with two strong fingers, drawing him tight as a bowstring before he lets his native tongue — an Arabic dialect no others in the court besides Yusuf know more than a few words of — slide free, telling the boy every _obscene_ desire he has in regards to that pale flesh.

He hasn’t gotten more than a sentence in when Marco releases a low, strangled gasp of, “Oh _God_ ,” as his back arches to match his throat.

His fingers move hard, deep, as he tells the boy how he’d like to bruise his pale skin with marks dark enough to be vivid against it, how he’d like to bite hard enough to make him bleed. Then to a bit of fact, about how he’s going to pin the boy down and take him, make him writhe and _beg_ for it first. He says he’d like to bend him over the desk and _beat_ him until all trace of resistance is gone; take him then, when he’s crying and soaked. Marco trembles against him, as if the boy actually understands; perhaps cueing off of his tone and not his words.

He licks up behind the boy’s ear again, making him give a hitched cry and prompting a clench of muscle around his fingers. It doesn’t fully ease, even as he fucks the pet with the twist and shove of fingers not his own. (He wonders, for a few moments, if Marco fucks himself when necessary, or if his Christian roots demand denial instead. The latter would seem to him to be more likely.)

Marco pushes down into his hand, and he laughs and then tells the boy how good it will feel to take him, to fuck him, to have the _untouchable_ pet of the Khan under him. He gets a sharp flinch at the title ‘Khan,’ but otherwise his words only serve to push Marco higher; the degradation of them lost on ears that can’t understand.

He can feel the Latin drawing tighter, approaching the end of what little endurance his sheltered life has left him with. Those thighs part wider; wide enough that he could step between them if he wanted, if he didn’t have other plans. As tempting as immediate gratification is, he wants more than just to shove clothing aside and fuck the boy with that little care. No, he wants the pet put in his place. Stripped, desperate, _wet_ and messy; spread for his pleasure, because he commanded it.

Marco gives a low, broken whine, shuddering, _twisting_ —

He stops speaking and lets go, pulling his hand from within the boy’s clothes with no ceremony and separating them entirely with a single step backwards. He gets a sharp, pleading sound of denial for it, as the swing of Marco’s head brings wide blue eyes up to look at him in something just shy of desperation. The boy trembles, scent thick in the air, hands clutching at his desk and weight leaning on it as he’s left — abandoned — right on the edge of release.

It’s beautiful to watch, as the boy twitches and shivers, jaw clenching tight, trying to gain control of himself. A hopeless prospect.

“That was for your misbehavior,” he says, once the shivers have stopped and the boy has just enough sanity back to make him able to listen. “Now take off your clothes.”

The look aimed at him is nearly incredulous, though somewhat ruined by the fact that the boy is breathing hard through his nose due to the restrained clench of his jaw.

He raises an eyebrow. “Must I repeat myself?”

For a moment, he thinks the answer might be yes. But then Marco’s hands pry themselves away from the desk, and rise — faintly trembling — to push the leather of his coat off of one shoulder, and then the other. He watches, offering neither help nor hindrance, as the Latin strips out of his layers. Pale flesh comes into view, bruised, and he swallows irrational possessiveness at the sight. Sifu would never take the boy like that; the bruises are earned, not given. Still, he would love to see the boy unmarked. Fresh. Innocent.

He spends several long moments simply admiring the sight of the boy when he is finally stripped bare. Undoubtedly, the boy is harder than when he came to them. The last vestiges of a not-fully-grown boy stripped away to leave behind lean muscle, all wrapped beneath curled hair, thick eyelashes, and a full mouth. The things he could _do_ to that mouth.

He steps forward, reaching out to touch the center of Marco’s chest, letting his fingers lightly explore the definition the boy has earned. Nothing like the strength of someone born and raised among them, but he’d imagine that it’s miles better than most of the other omegas of the boy’s culture. From what he’s heard, at least.

Marco’s chest rises beneath his hand in a sharp breath, before the boy says, “I am not your toy. I belong to the Khan, _not_ you.” His voice is breathy, but still defensive. Compelling too, if he were speaking to someone less well versed in the khanate’s ways.

“Belong to the Khan?” he echoes, with a smile. “Boy, one night in a man’s bed does not make you his. If you think yourself so favored by the Khan, why do you not bear his marks? Why are you not part of his harem? Why has he not summoned you back to his bed since the night he took you?”

The boy falters.

He slides his hand up, pressing into the enticing dip at the hollow of his throat. “Why is your neck bare of adornment, _pet?_ Surely by now you know that the Khan’s favor comes with gifts. Where are yours?” He pushes harder, until Marco gives beneath the pressure and bows backwards, until he’s pinned the boy to the desk with the dig of his fingers. “The Khan owns you as a slave, boy, not a lover. You have yet to earn his favor, or the honor of being his alone.”

He keeps his thumb pressed to that hollow, slowly sliding his fingers around the side and back of the boy’s neck. Marco doesn’t seem to have an answer for him, which is only slightly disappointing. He steps between the boy’s legs anyway, parting them with the press of his knees. His other hand he allows to lower to the boy’s chest, tweaking one nipple just to see what reaction he gets.

A sharp jerk and a small gasp, and then, “I am _not_ yours,” is repeated.

He slides his fingers down, between those spread thighs. “I never said you were.”

The boy takes two fingers easily enough, so he pushes a third in as well. He can feel the stretch around them, but the boy is wet and slick, eased enough to take it without pain, if perhaps with a small bit of discomfort. The boy squirms, thighs pressing in on either side of his knees, head twisting to the side, towards his hand. He rocks his fingers into the passage opening to them, keeping his gaze on Marco's face to study his expression. It has the added benefit of clearly making the boy uncomfortable, or at least shy.

It doesn't take all that much to work the pet high again, and once he's come back around to making those strangled sounds, hips rocking into his touch and pulse thudding beneath the pressure of his thumb, he leans down. He blankets the boy, keeping himself held up just enough that he's not resting his weight on him. With that head turned to the side his ear is bared again, and he grazes his teeth across the shell of it before allowing himself to give a faint, low, _growl_.

The boy _jerks_ , back arching, throat pushing up against his hand, and suddenly there are hands grabbing at his shoulders. There's a moment of gasped breath, of fingers digging in against his clothing almost hard enough to bruise the skin beneath, before the boy shudders and collapses back against the desk. A breathless, submissive whine escapes the boy. It's more than enough to make him smile, to assure him that he has played the pet beautifully and there is little to no chance of any outcome but precisely what he wants. Marco will obey; he'll beg, and submit, and be _his_.

Arabic flows easily from his tongue as he says, " _This is your place, Marco. Wet, desperate, and spread beneath your betters. You'll learn._ " The boy shakes again, as if understanding him. Reverting to the more common tongue, he murmurs, "Are you close, boy?"

" _Yes_ ," Marco gasps, clutching at his shoulders. He didn't need the verbal confirmation to know it, but it makes it easier to pay more attention to the clench and release of the boy around his fingers, to read the pattern of his breath and the sounds he's making.

He bites at the lobe of the boy's ear, hard enough to make it unmistakable but not to leave a mark. The boy keens, arches, shakes, and he abruptly pulls his fingers to leave him clenching around nothing. A jerk, a sharp cry of clear loss, and he straightens up and away just in time to avoid the buck of the boy's hips.

"No," Marco gasps, twisting against the hand on his throat. "No, _please_." The boy's legs rise to bracket him, clenching in against his hips, trying to pull him closer.

He resists it, watching the boy tremble with no small amount of satisfaction. "That was for lying to me," he says, as Marco claws at the desk, back arching, eyes wide and wild once more. "I told you I would find a way of disciplining you, boy." Marco's eyes are raised to him, shocked and glinting wetly. They squeeze shut, and he tracks the slide of tears from their corners.

"Please," the boy says, accent thick as it was in his very first days here. "Please, don't—”

"Do you want something?" he asks, sliding wet fingers up the boy's stomach to tease him. "If you are ready to behave, then ask me for what you desire. Ask for what you _need,_ pet."

For a moment he believes he might have to wring one more denied release from the boy, as that jaw clenches shut and those hands curl against the desk. But then the boy falls apart, mouth parting in a breathless sob as he shakes, head twisting back to bare more of his throat. It's lovely, but not entirely what he wants. He wants the boy to _beg_.

"Ask," he demands.

" _Please_ ," the boy says first, legs tightening against him. "Please, let me— _God_ , please. Whatever you want. Take whatever you—”

He presses against the hollow of the boy's throat, cuts him off. " _Ask_."

"Take me!" the boy nearly shouts, choked by the press of his hand. " _Please!_ "

The smile that curls his mouth is far from kind, but luckily no one but the boy is there to witness it. He switches his hands, letting wet fingers circle the boy's throat to pin him down, as he lowers the other to loosen the ties of his clothing. No more than is necessary to free himself, to take himself in hand, and push himself inside the boy. He barely refrains from baring his teeth at the sensation; hot, wet, clenching down around him as if he could be stopped. He watches as Marco's back bows off the desk, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting in a sharp gasp that rises into a broken cry as he fully seats himself.

He waits only a moment before he begins to move, fucking into the boy in hard shoves that allow no room for resistance or denial. It is not Marco's place to offer either; not to him.

He doesn't lean down this time. Doing so would bring his mouth too close to the pale skin bared for his sight, and he is not positive he could refrain from leaving the boy a true mark to declare his victory. Logically he knows he does not need to bite the boy for others to know that he has conquered the Khan's stubborn new pet, but riled instincts rarely listen to logic. He takes the boy harder to sate his own desire to mark him, tightening his grip on the throat and bearing his weight down to hold him to the desk. Not enough to bruise; _careful_.

The boy will leave his building smelling of him, of sex, to walk directly past the assistants he ordered out. The room will smell of them, and when dismissed his subordinates will take the tale to their friends, to the drinking places they frequent, and the gossip will spread. Marco will continue to reject all others, and his reputation will rise.

His grip keeps the boy from speaking, from offering anything but choked, breathless sounds, and he finds himself enjoying that. _Silencing_ the clever-tongued pet is satisfaction all on its own. If the boy was more aware, he doubts that his grip would be allowed. He would bear claw marks on his wrist by now. The fact that he does not, that he doesn't even need to _think_ of such reprisal, satisfies his instincts more than anything else. The boy is _his_ in this moment, marked or not.

He can feel the boy clenching around him in a rhythmic pattern, watches the muscles of his stomach ripple, the impending signs of a release he does not intend on stopping this time. He lets go of the boy's throat; he wants to hear what sounds will come from him, here at the end. He wants to know how loud he can force the Latin to be, how far from his _god_ he can drag him.

Marco's throat immediately arches, offered to him, and he slides his hand up and threads it through the boy's curls, gripping tight at the base of his skull. The Latin's thighs tremble, and he stares down, watches as the boy draws tight, then shatters apart.

A _scream_ is what he gets, rising into the open room as the boy shakes, seed splattering across his own stomach, inner walls constricting around him. He does not pause, does not gentle for the sake of the boy's release, but takes him through it. It causes the boy to arch, no longer shaking so obviously but still trembling, one hand rising to grip his arm. The boy's gaze is hazed, and he resists the urge to bare his teeth, to lean down, to bite down into the pale softness of that throat.

The thought pushes him higher, and he feels himself begin to swell, brought on by the sight of the boy's submission, and the low whines escaping his throat. More pleasing to the ear than any music.

Marco jerks at the first push of his half-grown knot, nails curling into the cloth covering his arm, other hand swinging up as if to grab his shoulder. He intercepts it with his free hand, catching the Latin's wrist and pinning it down to the desk to keep him obedient. It is hard to deny instinct, and the urge to fuck harder and faster, but he does. He drags himself under control, shortening his thrusts to keep them shallow, to do little more than push his knot in and out of the boy, stretching him with each pass.

The boy writhes, tears more obvious in his eyes, mouth open as he cries out and gasps for air in turn. It heightens to another short scream when he shoves inside for the last time, ignoring the bit of resistance as he ties them together. He keeps his jaw clenched together so he doesn't snarl, grinding his hips into the boy as his eyes close, release taking him. He releases the clench of his jaw when the urge passes, so he can breathe out, weight pressed down across Marco's wrist, and into the table where his hand is curled in the boy's hair.

He opens his eyes, looking down at the conquered boy. Marco is breathing hard once again, the fingers of his captive wrist curled as if wanting to grasp or claw at something, his mouth parted invitingly. The scent of him is thick in the air; the enticing smell of an aroused, desiring omega, ready to be taken. Or having been taken. The boy's scent is as foreign as his looks. At the core it is the same, as are all others, but there is a distinct difference to it, a sweetness instead of richness, that marks him as different than the others of more local races.

He rocks within the boy, drawing a small whimper from him, and a shudder from his own shoulders at the sensation of it. Marco pulls at the arm he's holding, gaze hazy as it finds his face, locked inside instinctual desire and submission.

"Please," the boy whispers, pulling at his arm again, wrist twisting against his grip.

He tilts his head, considering if he should capitulate to the boy's desire to be close, and held. He cannot lift Marco, not for long, and he has no desire to try. There are ways he could angle them to allow the contact, to give the boy the comfort of having his instincts sated. It would be pleasant to possess the boy in one more way.

Marco shivers, thighs pressing in against his hips. " _Please_ ," the boy begs, and he stiffens for a moment. The word is in _Arabic_. The accent is evident, but still, the language is too familiar.

 _Could_ the boy have understood what he said to him before?

Unsettled somewhat, he releases his grip on the boy's wrist. He slides his hand beneath the boy's waist, steels himself for a short moment, and then lifts him by both that and the grip in his hair. The shift of muscle around him, the angle, would be enough to steal his breath if he were not prepared. Marco is not as prepared, and gives a soft cry at the shift, thighs clenching around him even as he is brought up and gathered close. He keeps his grip in the boy's hair, and slides the other around his back to press flat to his skin. The boy's hands curl in his clothing, head tucking in against his chest and below his chin.

He can feel Marco relax, breath slowing, calming. It is not a part of him he has ever had much care to think of, but there is something in him that is in turn comforted by having a warm, calm omega held against him. It is almost enough to ease away the realization that Marco may have understood every filthy, degrading desire he told him.

"You speak Arabic?" he asks, after a few minutes of relative silence.

The Latin stirs, head nudging up beneath his chin, pressing into him. "I understand more than I speak," the boy murmurs, voice lazy and sated. Before he can ask the next question, the answer comes as, "I do not believe it is the same dialect as yours."

He considers that for another minute, idly rubbing slow circles into Marco's back with his thumb. "Did you understand what I said to you?"

The boy shivers, breath audibly catching, and his almost catches as well when muscle clenches around him. "Perhaps… One in every six words. Enough to—” A small clearing of the throat, fingers curling harder into their grips. "Enough to understand the content, if not the actual sentences."

Good. Excellent. He will have to be more careful with what he says in the future; the boy is far too quick a study, with far too discerning a mind. It would be foolish to believe that Arabic, however different the dialect, is the only other language Marco knows more than a handful of words about.

"Your accent is terrible," he says, brushing the whole matter aside instead of allowing the boy to see that it unnerved him. If he does not appear unnerved, the boy will not think to question what it was that was said to him.

A small shrug, and a more purposeful nuzzle against his chest. "My accent is terrible in many things," the boy counters.

He allows the matter to drop there, and for Marco to continue to subtly shift and rub against him. Scent-marking him, but he doubts the boy has any idea of what he's doing. Instinct has him; when the knot comes free, and he's had a few minutes to recover, he'll remember how much he was against all of this. Until then, the boy is still far too inexperienced and new at this entire game to do anything but float in the satisfied haze of submission that instinct delivers. As he learns, he'll learn to bring himself out of that. Few that are Mongol-raised would be as vulnerable by his age.

He allows silence to reign, keeping Marco quiet and relaxed through the stroke of fingers along his back and through his hair. Eventually his knot subsides, and when it does he guides Marco back to lie on the desk, and then pulls out of him. He gets a small whimper for it, and barely resists smirking. The boy will be sore for a couple days; something tangible to remember him by.

Marco pushes up as he pulls away, haze still evident in his eyes as a small, pleading whine leaves his throat. He raises an eyebrow but otherwise ignores it, lowering his hands to retie his clothing as he steps away and returns to his chair. He starts to reorganize his papers as Marco rises, legs faintly trembling but still supporting him, his head hanging down. It doesn't matter to him how quickly or how slowly the boy gathers himself; the only difference will be in how quickly his subordinates can continue their work. They can wait a little longer.

The boy looks over at him after a time, and when he meets the blue gaze it is far more present, more aware. Quick even in this.

"Get dressed," he orders, when the boy doesn't say anything. "I have duties to attend to, even if you do not."

A small flush colors those cheeks, and the boy's gaze slips away, glancing around the room. "Is there— Is there a bath?"

"Does this look like a private room?" he counters. "No; you will have to go elsewhere for that, Master Marco."

The flush darkens, and there's a sharp edge to the Latin's gaze. Anger, perhaps, but certainly he can read the shame there. He can see both things even more clearly when the boy sinks to his knees, gathering pieces of clothing to him. He watches from the corner of his eye as the boy dresses, but gives him little more mind than that, at least until he's put together again. Still smelling inescapably of what has occurred, with flushed cheeks and hair too tangled to be from anything but their actions, but acceptable at a distance, if not looked at too closely.

He reaches beneath one of the piles on his desk, and then turns to Marco to hand him the small bundle of herbs. The boy takes it after a moment of hesitation, though the downwards pull of his brow suggests that he does not know what it is. Unsurprising.

"Steep it in water, and drink the tea," he explains.

Marco appears wary. "For what purpose?"

He turns more fully towards the boy, looking up at him and arching an eyebrow. "How little does your culture teach you of practicalities, boy? Or do they seek to hobble their omegas by ensuring they know no better way to live?"

Anger. Clear this time, as his hands curl to fists. "That is not an answer to my question," the boy points out, voice caught somewhere between anger and deference. He is learning to have teeth, but he has not fully grown accustomed to them yet.

"Do you wish to be with child?" he says, instead of answering directly. "That will prevent it, but if you would rather be a mother, by all means leave it here. I can use it for someone more appreciative."

The boy is stiff, but his gaze lowers. "No, I—” A hard swallow. "Thank you, Minister," he says, voice reluctant, slow, but still an admission.

He watches for a moment longer, and then nods and turns away. "Until next time, Master Marco. Enjoy the rest of your day."

It takes another few moments of hesitation, but the boy moves away, heading for the exit. He lets himself look at the boy's back, shoulders drawn high with tension, as he leaves. The scent remains, and will remain, until efforts are made to clear the air of it.

He may delay that for a time.


End file.
